


Never Was There A Caesar That Couldn't Sing The Tune

by ClementineStarling



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7975627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something must have happened on the journey to Harbour Island in episode one to make Billy lie for Flint about Singleton and the page. Also explains how Flint knew Billy could read in the first place, plus why he's able to recount Billy's story to Abigail Ashe when before their visit of Richard Guthrie he apparently didn't even know his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Was There A Caesar That Couldn't Sing The Tune

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat of an prelude to their encounter in [A Piece of Eight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7856659)
> 
> There may be underlying D/s-dynamics but I don't think they're too pronounced.  
> Also there's a sentence that could be understood as hinting at sexual abuse.

It turns out Flint has a much better grasp of who's who on the crew than his earlier conversation with Gates let on. While they set sail for Harbour Island he inquires about surviving dependants of Mr Duffy, about news from Joshua's family, even about Muldoon's bad tooth. Contrary to appearances he seems in fact rather well informed about what's going on on the Walrus. Which makes Billy wonder. Flint's expression gave nothing away when he asked, “Who's Billy?”, but he's good at inscrutability. It's just an assumption, but Billy suspects the captain acted ignorant on purpose when his name was mentioned, just to irk Mr Gates. Why else would he pretend not to know him? He's the bloody boatswain of the ship. Billy also believes to have seen the slightest twitch of Flint's lips, a faint curl that could – perhaps – have been the ghost of a smile.

Tough to be entirely honest, Billy isn't sure whether he should think of that as a comfort. He is wary of Flint's smiles. They're more likely snarls than manifestations of a pleasant mood, and Billy's not too keen on being on the receiving end of one of the captain's tempers. Especially now that he's been given the unrewarding task of keeping an eye out for trouble and restraining Flint, if – or when – necessary. He sincerely hopes it won't come to that. He may be physically stronger than his captain but he's seen Flint fight – he's a tough bastard – and he'd rather not try his luck. Billy's glad about every day of his life spent without physical pain.

He's also glad Flint doesn't seem to insist on keeping their conversation up all the way to Harbour Island. The questions make Billy nervous. He's not a taciturn man, but with the captain he often has to grope for the right words, always anxious to say the wrong thing, give him cause for offence or be perceived a simpleton. Billy can't say why he's so concerned about on Flint's opinion of him but he is, and so he's relieved, when Flint falls silent at last. After they set their course sailing doesn't take up too much of their attention and it isn't long before Flint has his nose buried in a leather bound volume. Not that Billy would be surprised. It's well known the captain likes his books. 

There is something oddly peaceful about a man reading a book, Billy finds. It makes for a good addition to the bright blue sky and the favourable breeze, the fleecy clouds and the glittering sea. He himself has planned on a more mundane occupation to pass the time – his clothes desperately need mending. His shirt is torn in several places and so threadbare in others, it's become transparent. More importantly he has to take care of the damage his coat suffered a couple of weeks back when breaking up a drunken brawl between Turk and Logan about some girl or other. There isn't much to be done about its general shabbiness, but no one expects sailors to be dressed all neat and tidy. Only since they intend to visit Richard Guthrie, from what he's heard a gentleman placing value on such circumstantial things as attire, he's determined to aim for an appearance that's at least halfway decent. 

The tear in the faded greyish blue fabric of his coat is easily patched and soon Billy can move on to tending to his shirt. He pulls it over his head cautiously, careful not to rip it further. It could be cleaner, he realises, there are some smudges on the collar but that can't be helped now. He threads the needle and is about to begin his work when he feels the captain's gaze falling upon him like a shadow, causing goosebumps to spring up on his skin.

Flint has raised his eyes from his book and is watching his activities with the hint of a frown.  
“Perhaps it would be easier to get yourself a new shirt,” he says. 

There is something about the way he looks at him. Something Billy can't quite put is finger on, but it's somewhat unsettling. He tries to shrug it off, together with the suggestion.

“I'm pretty fond of this one,” he says. The truth is shirts his size are hard to come by. While most men can simply help themselves to some of the clothing found on the ships they capture, their plunder rarely comprises garments to fit a man of Billy's stature. In fact most shirts that find their way into Nassau make him look as though squeezed into children's clothes. It's not just the too-short sleeves but also the fact the fabric strains around his chest and the seams rip at his shoulders. There's no way around it, if he needs a new shirt, he's got to see a tailor, which costs time and money, not to mention quite a bit of patience. Under the circumstances he prefers to stick to the one he has for just a little while longer.

Flint watches him for another moment, his expression unreadable. Then, just when Billy thinks he can't bear his gaze anymore, he nods and returns his attention to his book.

Still, Billy's skin feels tight and hot and there is this queasy sensation in his stomach. It could be the salt in the air and the sun and the constant motion of the boat, rocking with the waves, but he's used to all of this and he seriously doubts having developed a spontaneous sensitivity to sailing. There must be another reason for this strange uneasiness and the only thing different from other trips in small boats is Flint's presence.

Billy's never spent time alone with the captain before. And why should he? It's Mr Gates' job to act as Flint's advisor and second in command, accompany him wherever he goes and provide council or diplomatic skills, if necessary. As far as Billy's concerned, it's not a position to be envious about. He's seen the quartermaster too often after these business meetings, grumbling or cursing into his drink. “Stubborn as a mule,” he will mumble on these occasions when the wine has loosened his tongue and Billy's about to escort him back to his hammock because Gates can scarcely stand on his own anymore. It's a lot of responsibility to prevent the captain from doing something stupid, and Billy's not convinced he is up to the task. Isn't that a good enough cause to feel nervous? 

The hours pass and when finally every last hole in Billy's shirt has been seen to, he's almost grown accustomed to the glances Flint darts at him from time to time. It's not as though there is much to see here after all, and occasionally he looks into Flint's direction too, doesn't he? Probably there is nothing strange about it, he's just edgy because of the visit, Billy thinks. All he needs is a bit of distraction, so he sets to carving another turtle from a piece of wood, a pastime he's taken up a while ago, and it appears he slowly gets the hang of it. Perhaps his next project can be more advanced? 

The sun is warming his skin, pleasantly mellowed by a wind that allows them to make good progress, and Billy starts feeling a bit sleepy. He puts the knife aside and squints out at the waves glittering like jewels in the sun. The light is setting the captain's hair ablaze, it looks as though flames burst from his head, flickering like a halo around him. It's the last thing Billy thinks before he dozes off.

__

He comes to a couple of hours later when the captain shakes him awake. “Billy,” he says and again “Billy.” It's strange to hear his name off his tongue, Billy thinks, still somewhat disoriented, unwilling to leave the embrace of sleep just yet. He can't remember what it was he dreamt about, but it has left a pleasant resonance he'd like to hold onto, though Flint won't let him.

“We're almost there,” he says while Billy rubs the sleep from his eyes. To the east the shoreline of Eleuthera shines white in the still bright sunlight. They still have to go around the island to reach their destination, so technically _almost_ is an exaggeration, but Billy understands that Flint would appreciate a second pair of hands.

While fumbling with the rigging to adjust the sail his gaze falls on the book that lies discarded next to their provisions. “How's your book?” he asks, absentmindedly. 

“The book?” Flint echoes, nonplussed.

“The one you're reading. Is it interesting?”

Again Flint's stare gives nothing away of his thoughts, there's just the usual hardness everyone – including Billy – finds so unnerving. But perhaps sleep has left him more brazen than usual, for Billy does something that is uncharacteristically forward and simply bends down and picks up the leather bound volume. Flint hasn't moved to stop him but on his face a thunderstorm is gathering.

Billy swallows and rather turns his eyes to the book he's holding. “ _The Improvement of Human Reason: Exhibited in the Life of Hai Ebn Yokdhan_ ,” he reads aloud. “That's quite a mouthful.”

“You can read?” Flint sounds surprised, more surprised than Billy deems called for, and he can't help but feel a little offended. Sure, most of his brothers can't read, but he isn't the only one on the Walrus who's literate. Apart from the captain and Mr Gates there are Dr. Howell, the ship surgeon, Dufresne, Mr DeGroot, even Singleton can make some sense of the written word and he's clearly not overly bright. These – mostly sensible – men are the main reason Billy never seriously considered joining another crew, not even now when their raids hardly cover their costs. Hornigold's men seem unable to think for themselves and prefer following orders, just like all good soldiers – and Billy has spent enough time with the Royal Navy to last him several life times – and Charles Vane apparently refuses to employ anyone smarter than himself but for one exception, yet even Jack Rackham's brains can't balance out the dire lack of common sense on the Ranger. They're a pack of thugs and criminals, nothing more.

“My parents taught me,” he says. “They insisted I learned to read and write so I could make up my own mind about the world.”

Captain Flint looks at him with a more pronounced frown, clearly digging for Billy's story in the depths of his memory. Most likely he's heard Billy's history, everyone on the Walrus has.

“They were Levellers, from Kensington,” he offers as an explanation, “Anti-impressment activists, printing their own pamphlets for their cause. I was handing them out one day in the street when the press gang came along and took me with 'em.” 

“I do remember the tale”, Flint says, more gravely than Billy would have expected. “I'm sorry, Billy.” The way he looks at him conveys some actual compassion, it feels as though Billy is allowed to catch a glimpse of an entirely different person, and that's nearly more unsettling than Flint's usual severity. 

He looks at the book in his hands, realising he overstepped a boundary. What does it concern him what the captain's reading? It's not his place to pry. He moves to give it back, and Flint, automatically, steps closer and reaches for it. The strangeness in his eyes doesn't go away and Billy is quick to pull back his hand, suddenly convinced he'd catch fire if he let Flint touch him. Perhaps it's not only the sleep but also the long day in the sun that has muddled his brain.

On closer inspection he does feel a little feverish, it's not unlikely he suffers from a mild form of sunstroke. So he needs no further convincing when, upon arrival at their destination, Flint suggests a quick dip to cool themselves off. After hours of boiling heat the water offers welcome refreshment. 

Billy would be perfectly happy with its effect, if weren't for the fact he finds Flint's nudity oddly distracting. He has trouble tearing his eyes away from his naked form, the tightly wound muscle and compact frame; Billy himself is so tall, the bulk he's gained through hard labour is arranged more generously around his body, he is still lean in places, while the captain looks as though all his anger and wrath was condensed into a perfect, powerful shape that leaves no room for softness. And yet there are also the generous smattering of freckles on his shoulders and patches of coppery hair and spots of skin that appears smooth white as marble. For some strange reason he's quite sure, he'd never tire of looking at him, but then Flint's eyes meet his, unfathomable, ocean-green eyes, and Billy finds he has to avert his gaze after all.

__

Harbour Island couldn't be more different from Nassau. The houses here aren't falling into disrepair with the paint flaking off the walls and the plaster crumbling but they don't resemble the simple cottages in the interior of New Providence either. They're neither huts nor shacks but large white-washed mansions surrounded by immaculate gardens. Instead of free, somewhat savage looking men prowling the streets, determined to enjoy the various pastimes life has to offer, here neatly clothed slaves are bustling about, labouring for their owners, working the fields, carrying goods, none of them idle and scarcely daring to lift their eyes to dart a quick glance at their master's visitors. 

Billy feels a familiar surge of anger in his chest. The day-to-day struggle for survival on a pirate ship, the dangers, worries and troubles are so different from normal life, he sometimes forgets what it actually is they're fighting: an inhumane Empire, merciless in its hunger for ever new riches, and its agents who stop short of no cruelty, no ploy or plot to fill their coffers. There is none of his brothers who wasn't brought low by their greed or plunged into misery by their schemes. Yet here in their palaces they can ply their trade undisturbed, as if the pirates of New Providence were only a fairy tale and all was fine in Nassau.

Billy certainly harbours no sympathies for the likes of Richard Guthrie but he's also not forgotten Mr Gates' words about the importance of their mission and he will make an effort to keep his calm and the captain's temper in check. How hard can it be, really? Not too hard, he hopes. 

Flint appears composed enough when they reach Guthrie's residence and Billy allows his attention to be captured by the treasures of the house, the select furniture, the generous rooms, the paintings on the walls. Most of them seem pretty enough, bowls of fruit, beautiful girls. There's one picture he finds puzzling though. He's never been to a gentleman's home and it seems queer one would put up the depiction of a woman holding the severed head of a man in one's study. 

“Judith with the head of Holofernes,” Flint comments at Billy's bewildered expression, but it's not really the question he's been pondering on. Everyone knows Richard Guthrie left his daughter in charge of his operation in Nassau, and it's also known what a stupid idea it is to cross Mistress Eleanor, so he can't help to think her father would be well advised to heed the painting's warning. So perhaps that's why he keeps it here?

Richard Guthrie doesn't act like a man who entertains doubts about his own sacrosanctity though. He appears more irritated by their visit than afraid, which is either very brave or very foolish, for even Billy himself, as the ship's boatswain and Gates' protégé, is anxious not to aggravate his captain. He's not a man one wants to have as an enemy. His reputation isn't fictitious but founded in deeds, deeds Billy can attest to as a first hand-witness and he'd rather have Guthrie cooperate than see what Flint might do if he doesn't. Upon refusing him Guthrie may very well find himself less indispensable than he thought. If Flint's toothy grin is any indication, he's not in the slightest bit willing to beg for Guthrie's assistance; he's accustomed to get what he wants and won't hesitate to take it with force if he must. 

Whatever the crew thinks of Flint, he isn't weak; there is little, if anything at all, that could stop him from attaining his objective, and some part of Billy revels in the knowledge. There is something intoxicating about power, a lure that even Billy can't entirely resist. He tries to be a good man, as good as he can under the circumstances, and most days he succeeds, but Flint has an effect few men can evade. It must be a base desire that makes Billy want to yield to his spell, just give into the magic he works and submit to his every whim – but Billy is neither a mindless animal nor a mere tool, he's well aware of what hangs in the balance if he doesn't keep Flint from losing control in the heat of the moment.

To resist him, to have him at gun point, all that raw power contained only by his own will, holds quite a different kind of thrill, he realises. It's intoxicating to be in the focus of Flint's passion, even when he's furious. Maybe precisely because of it. Billy's heart beats faster, his palms grow sweaty.

On his desk Richard Guthrie moans in pain and Billy swallows, his mouth dry, the captain's stare chafing at his skin. His blood is inflamed, he's drunk on this, whatever it is. 

It's the whinny of horses that snaps him out the strange rapture.

__

A fight causes another kind of rush, the sort of intoxication that allows the body to move of its own accord. Billy doesn't come to his senses until they're out of the house and half-way down to the beach. He remembers dimly Guthrie fainted upon realising he'd been shot, and that's mostly because of the fact he's carrying him in his arms is a pretty good reminder. He begins to wonder why the unconscious man doesn't seem much heavier than a rag doll, for Billy might be strong, but he's not _that_ strong. It must be the after-effect of the fight with Hume's men that gave him Herculean strength, though now that he's started thinking about it, his energy begins to wane. The last yards to the boat Billy stumbles more than he runs. He lets Guthrie slump into the vessel like a sack of grain and with the last of his strength helps Flint pushing it into the water. Then he collapses next to Richard Guthrie's passed out form, trying to catch his breath, while Flint rows them away from the shore, into the safety of sea and darkness. 

“You all right?” Flint asks once he deems it safe to put down the oars.

“I think so,” Billy sits up, groaning. “How's Mr Guthrie?” 

“He'll live,” Flint says, reaching for a bottle next to him. He uncorks it with his teeth, takes a deep pull and hands it to Billy. It's Madeira wine, sweet and strong, not the weak mix of water and wine they drank on their way to the island, and it doesn't take long for its relaxing effect to unfurl in Billy's blood. Along with the alcohol fatigue is spreading. Not the dwindling of physical strength but the bone-deep tiredness of exhaustion.

“You did well there,” Flint says between taking another gulp and passing the bottle back to Billy. “Apart from the little interlude with the pistol, that is. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Mr Gates told me to restrain you if necessary.”

“Restrain me?” Flint laughs.

“That was precisely my reaction.” Billy shrugs. “But you know Mr Gates.”

“Aye, I do. He's optimistic to a fault.” Flint chuckles and takes back the bottle. Their fingers touch, just for the briefest of moments, but Billy feels it like a lightning bolt, it makes a shiver run down his spine and a flash of warmth flare up in his belly.

He wants more of this, Billy realises and the thoughtless bravery of wine lets him act on the impulse. The next time Flint hands him the bottle, he actively aims for their fingers to touch and doesn't let go for longer that could be deemed inconspicuous under any circumstance.

“What are you doing?” Flint asks and Billy can't help but notice his voice has taken on an even deeper tone than usual. He sounds husky, and this adds more to Billy's excitement than seems in any way reasonable. 

“What does it look like?” Billy says. “I don't wanna let go.”

He's not sure what he expected, more banter maybe, but certainly not Flint's hand on the back of his neck, callused, purposeful fingers pulling him closer, and even less Flint's mouth on his own, soft lips, sweet with wine, and the coarse tickle of whiskers. Billy gasps in surprise, and would have gasped even more as Flint takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into Billy's mouth, but some less reasonable part of him has taken over, and that part hasn't much room for astonishment; especially not when there's a kiss to be returned. His tongue flickers against Flint's, traces the rim of his teeth and the seam of his lips, every touch sparking a new tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach. 

Without letting go of him Flint puts his free hand high up on Billy's thigh, the thumb rubbing the most enticing circle through the fabric of his breeches. It's not just quite where he wants to have it, so he mirrors that touch too, clutches at Flint's neck, that tense knot of muscle and bone, and holds him steady, while his other hand's sneaking to the apex of his legs, palm pressing against the hardening shape of his cock. Billy feels it twitch and Flint groan into their kiss, then return the favour, the weight of his warm, strong hand wonderful on Billy's own erection.

It's ridiculous how good this feels, Billy thinks, just kissing and groping at each other through their clothes. But he wants more, he wants to discover all the secret places on Flint's body, wants to taste everything for himself. It does take considerable effort to break the kiss for a moment to get rid of coats and shirts and breeches, their breathing ragged, their hands impatient with arousal and clumsy with wine as they fumble with buckles and laces, and it seems to take an eternity until they're both halfway naked. 

Billy has to lean on Flint with most of his weight to force him to lie still enough so he can run his tongue over the jutting line of his collarbone and down the sternum. He pauses on his way down to experimentally flick his tongue over the small bud of his nipple, which earns him a broken gasp and a curse, so he gives the other one the same attention. 

Flint's fingers curl against his skull, and for a moment Billy expects the captain to guide his movements but clearly he tries his best to exercise control, his fingertips just press lightly, almost reverently into Billy's scalp. He has stopped struggling for control and lets Billy go on with his exploration, his silence just broken by low groans or sighs of “yes” and “fuck” and “Billy”.

It's an intoxicating sort of power that comes with this service. The fearsome Captain Flint shivers under him when Billy rubs his cheek against the inner side of his thigh like a large cat, savouring the scent of his arousal, the stubble of his beard adding a faint sting to the caress. Flint jolts when Billy laps at the head of his cock, tasting the salty flavour of his precum, and Billy marvels at the trembles that follow in the wake of that jolt. He can only conclude that Flint is every bit as starved for this as he is and he decides to tease him just a little bit longer before he appeases his hunger by swallowing him down.

He trails his fingers through the fiery curls at the base of that pretty cock, over his tender, plump balls, just stroking gently. Billy knows what he's doing, it's a thing you pick up on quickly if you're a pretty lad among sailors, there are always men eager to teach you. It's only that Billy's rarely inclined to apply his skill. So rarely in fact, he is somewhat surprised at his own eagerness now.

The moan that escapes Flint when Billy presses the tip of his tongue into the small slit on Flint's cockhead can only be described as unholy. There is so much desperation in it, it nearly feels like an actual tug on Billy's own cock that lies stiff and neglected against Flint's leg. He can't help but give into the temptation to grind against Flint a couple of time, leaving wet trails on his skin.

“Jesus, Billy, you--” Flint begins but Billy won't let him finish the thought. He wraps one hand around the base of Flint's cock and his lips around the head, and then he _sucks_. Flint's reaction is, there is not better word for it, violent, and Billy is glad he has anticipated the move by leaning down on his legs and bracing himself with his free hand against his hips, because otherwise at least one of them would have gotten themselves hurt. He lets go of Flint with a wet pop that even sounds filthy to his own ears.

“If you can't keep still, I'll have to stop,” he says, looking up at Flint from between his legs. He can only guess at what a sight he must make, colour high on his cheeks, lips red and plush, eyes gleaming with desire, though judging from the way Flint stares at him, as if he's about to eat him alive, he must be doing a decent enough job. But just for good measure he sticks out his tongue and licks in a bold sweep from root to tip without breaking eye contact, which literally makes Flint _growl_.

“If you insist on keeping this up, at least one of us won't survive the night,” he says between clenched teeth. 

“So you want me to stop?” Billy says, attempting an innocent look while pressing his tongue against the sensitive spot on the underside of Flint's cock, just beneath the glans. It causes another tremble to run through the captain's body. 

“Billy!” Flint hisses, voice raw with need. “Don't test my patience.”

For a split-second Billy considers pushing him further, just to see what would happen, who of them both would win in a fight. It's the same thrill as earlier when he had Flint at gunpoint. How exciting it must be to measure himself against his captain, unleash Flint's passions, and if only to subjugate them. Fortunately the notion passes quickly, it's certainly neither the time nor the place for such games, and Billy confines himself to finish what he started.

Flint's cock is lovely against his tongue, thick and hard and sensitive, and Billy actually revels in the act. He relishes it so much he is sure he could come just from the feel and taste of Flint in his mouth, but Flint doesn't last long enough, or maybe Billy simply hasn't the heart to draw it out. So when the captain comes into his mouth with a strangled groan Billy is still hard as a pine mast.

After a few laboured breaths Flint pulls him into a kiss, tasting his own seed off Billy's tongue. He still kisses like a drowning man, his hands clutching at Billy as though he were a life line. Though soon the climax induced clumsiness abates and gives way to sure, purposeful touches. Flint holds him tight while his fingers close around Billy's cock, and this time it's Billy's turn to start and jerk. The pleasure is like a shock, erupting in waves from the slow, steady pull of Flint's hand, and it's impossible to control the tremors running through his body, chills and shivers, and soon Billy's whole world is reduced to the slick slide of his flesh through strong, callused fingers, the gentle squeeze and the delicious friction of Flint's thumb on the pink swollen glans. Bliss tips into a sensual ache tips into near-numbness. 

If Billy has been merciful, Flint doesn't return the favour. He protracts Billy's pleasure to the point where he feels like he's dissolving and balancing on the head of a pin at once, he hurts, but in the most delightful way, and his cock is leaking clear, pearly fluid as though weeping. Billy's distantly aware that the sounds escaping him have turned increasingly desperate, they're half-whimpers and wordless pleas, breathless gasps and broken moans, and Flint keeps kissing him as if he intends to soothe the pain and alleviate the torment, he himself is inflicting on him. 

Orgasm finally arrives like a tidal wave hits the shore. Billy doesn't see it coming until it's too late. It seems mellow at first, a smooth swell that keeps rising and rising until its a gigantic surge that's crashing down over Billy with unprecedented force. It feels like an eternity that he is coming over Flint's hands, billow after billow of salty semen, while his captain watches him with the strangest expression on his face. 

It must have been a dream, Billy decides later, when he lies on his back, gazing at the stars above and listening to the ocean washing up against the hull of their boat. A trick sun and excitement and exhaustion played on his poor mind. For who in their right mind would believe Captain Flint of the Walrus to be interested in messing around with his boatswain?

__

The next day starts with a hangover, moral and otherwise it seems. As they're drawing closer to Nassau, Flint returns to being his usual brooding self and Billy can't stop himself from questioning his decisions. He not only failed to accomplish his task of preventing the captain from hurting Richard Guthrie, no it was even his fault the man got injured in the first place (although one could argue, he had not much of a choice in the matter). But worst of all, over the drinking and getting each other off, neither Flint nor him had paid Guthrie's wound much heed. By the light of day it became obvious that the man had lost a lot of blood, and it wasn't just his weak constitution that was responsible for his swoon.

Now, the business with Richard Guthrie is something Billy could perhaps have justified before himself (and Mr Gates), if there hadn't been the thing with the captain. It's not that he'd regret it per se, it was nice, and that could be that; it's not even that Flint acts as if nothing happened. What sparks Billy's defiance is the fact he's still not seeing the error of his ways. That he still intends to keep lying and plotting to chase after an unobtainable treasure. It suggests their encounter was most likely a planned seduction, a ruse devised to ensure Billy's silence, and if there's a thought Billy can't abide, it's the idea of being bought. 

It's neither unlikely Flint will take more drastic measures if he doubts Billy's loyalty. When he gets up to confront Billy, the dagger comes out of its sheath by its own accord, Billy doesn't need to think about it, and Flint doesn't even blink as though the reaction is exactly what he's expected.

“We have no kings here,” Billy says, and it does sound somewhat weak, even to his own ears. Billy has to admit that a lot of what Flint has to say about the future makes sense. But he's still not willing to give in or even to lower his weapon.

“ _I_ am your king.” Flint steps closer, straight into Billy's blade, heedless of the sharp steel against his neck. His eyes are wild as the ocean, glinting with the same relentlessness as the tropical sun above them. It does take will-power not to back down but Billy doesn't see why he should. He is too angry to care anyway. He has had enough, this time he won't yield.

“You know this is exactly the kind of behaviour that makes people rally behind Singleton,” he says. “You're our elected captain not our damn king. And just to be clear: That I've sucked your cock doesn't make you my king either.”

The change is as prompt as it is unexpected – the hardness disappears from Flint's gaze and is replaced by a softer, almost gentle expression. “You know that's not what I intended, Billy,” he says but Billy isn't so easily appeased.

“What was it then, if not strategy and scheming?”

“I had no ulterior motives, Billy, no hidden agenda, believe me, it was just what it was.”

“How could I trust anything you say, when all you do is lie to everyone who gets in your way?”

Flint leans closer, his eyes filled with an emotion, Billy can't quite put his finger on. It could be rue, sadness, an appeal for forgiveness. The movement causes the blade to finally bite through the skin, just a little, just enough to draw blood. Billy is transfixed by the sight, the scarlet trickle that runs along Flint's collarbone and down his sternum. For the fraction of a second he considers ducking his head and gathering it up with his tongue, and Flint must have seen the thought flashing over his face because he smiles. A genuine, mild-mannered, good-tempered curl of his lips that immediately turns him into another person, a man Billy has only seen glimpses of but he's a bit enamoured with him nonetheless. 

Flint reaches out towards Billy's face in such a tender gesture Billy can't but lower the blade and allow Flint to cup his cheek. The touch is so gentle it makes Billy's heart clench in his chest. For a moment he's convinced Flint will pull him into a kiss but then a whistle signals their arrival at the Walrus and the sail drops like a curtain on their drama.

__

Naturally none of the things that have transpired between them on their journey to Harbour Island causes Flint to change his ways. On the contrary, he uses Billy's accusations to his own advantage, pretends to apologise only to stage another act to manipulate the crew, and this time Billy finds himself right at the heart of the plot. Whatever he might have told himself, Flint has indeed managed to catch him in his web, turn his head and make him his liegeman. So when he looks at the blank, blood-stained page, that just cost Mr Singleton his life, he does the incredible and plays his part in Flint's drama, dances the dance so to speak.

It's not until later that he fully comprehends what he's done, what Flint _made_ him do, and this realisation is the first spark to what will, in a few weeks time, become smouldering suspicion.


End file.
